06 August, 2010

It's Friday: Let's Piss Off...

So, let's dig the grave, you fucking lazy assholes. Let's see. Since it was essentially a tie, you would think I would have to do both. You would think that I would reward you for your insolence. You would think that life is t-ball and you get off scot free because you can't get your shit together.
It is only because I already promised to deliver that I will type anything out today but I want to remind you lazy insolent motherfuckers that I am not rewarding you for your failure. In fact, let me show you something.
Yeah, you like that, bitch? I put that shit in Century Gothic bold for your lazy ass. That's your reward. Ooh ooh ooh, how about this? You'll like this.
Yeah, you feel that sliding in? You feel my big unlubed cock of smack down fucking you in your failure ass? Yeah, I bet you like that, don't you? I know what you're into, you damned masochist. You like to fail me so I'll fuck you up your failure ass with my smack down cock. Nice and dry, too, tear you up then give you a pink sock of reprimand.
ANYhoo, you bunch of goddamned reprobates, let's quit fussin' around. I know how much you like to stroke yourselves while you sit in piles of your own shit but it's time to let go of your cocks and wipe up a little. There's business to be tended to.
Oh, and by the way, just want you to keep in mind:
So, bikes on sidewalks, huh? That's an easy one. Let's start with that one.
Keep your damned bike in the street. There is absolutely no reason for you to be riding it on the sidewalk. The only time you ever have an excuse for riding your bike on the sidewalk is when you have one of those baby carriage things for your bike... and there's a baby in it. Not your recycling, not your groceries, a baby. Doesn't even have to be your baby. Can you get your hands on a baby? Yeah? Congratulations, you now have an excuse for riding your bike on the sidewalk.
Even then, though, you know where I see people riding with their babies? In the street. The street. With cars and danger and crashes, yes, but also plenty of damned room to maneuver.
I can be walking, on the sidewalk, mind you, and here comes some goony middle-aged gray-haired "cool" dad riding his fucking bike at me and he'll expect me to move because there's not enough room on the sidewalk for:
  • Me, the pedestrian. Also, the person who pays taxes to have places to walk.
  • The trees, part of a city beautification project, which are stationary.
  • The street lights, part of a municipal public safety service, which are mounted on poles erected on the sidewalks, also stationary.
  • Him, a bicyclist, who at the moment, happens to be riding a bicycle.
Whereas the street doesn't have these obstructions to his path, he still refuses to do the sensible thing and ride out in the street. Why? Why can't he ride it in the street? Is it unfathomable that your pedal-vehicle can peacefully coexist with motor-vehicles? Come on.
So you know what I do now? I don't move over. Fuck that guy. He wants to play chicken and get pissed off at me? Fuck him. How about he has to angle that shit over to the curb between the trees and the street? How about he has to get out of my way? I'm walking here.
And I'm sick of this shit where I'm walking and some prick comes riding up behind me and shouts, "Excuse me!" then, instead of swerving around me, actually expects me to jump out of his way so he can continue in a straight line. I'm fucking walking here, why the hell do I have to get out of his way just because he has a bike and he's too goddamnably hydrocephalic to put it out in the street? Why the hell does he need the sidewalk? He doesn't. He doesn't. He doesn't. No. No. No. Put it in the fucking street for god's sake you filthy piece of worm vomit. Jesus.
But if he's black I get out of the way.
Oh, hey, did I mention this yet?
And now? Fuck-bots.
I want you to familiarize yourselves with the creeping lunacy that is Japan's infatuation with replacing us all with robots.

And I don't care what anybody says, I'm going to fuck that robot.
That was back in 2006. Six, motherfucker, six. Remember 2006? Yeah, that was a quaint time, wasn't it? There wasn't even Windows Vista, yet. Motherfuckers livin' all Amish and shit, churning butter by hand. So you know if that was version 2.0 of Japan's attempt at creating mechanomen back then, shit is next level now. And when I say "next level", I mean "a mind-bending trip through the uncanny valley". Check out the (incredibly sexist) Perfect Woman from 2008. Check out the Actroid Sara model from 2009 and then have a little laugh at some of its stunted mechanical movements. Go ahead and laugh. Laugh until you realize that the scientists who designed this thing put muscle movement a little further down the priority check list because they've been busy developing artificial intelligence. Since 2005, the Actroid Repliee Q2 can tell when you're talking to it and it will talk back.
It will talk back to you.
You talk to it.
It talks back to you.
Let that sink in.
Again: You talk to the robot, the robot talks to you.
Do you want to touch one? Do you want to feel how cold and lifeless its silicon skin is? Guess what. It knows not only when you're touching it but how you're touching it. It can tell if you're tapping it on the shoulder or flicking it in the eye.
Or, if you're like me, trying to see if they put nipples on it.
I mean, if I made a robot, I'd probably put nipples on it. Not because I - OK, well, yeah, there is that, so, yeah - but moreover because it would look weird without them. Think about it. You're making a female robot, you want her to look female, so you give her breasts. Granted, she's going to be presenting some dumb concept car bullshit at the auto show or be at a Comic Con booth where she'll be fully clothed and it doesn't matter if she has nipples or not but you just spent all that damned time making sure she had a decent pair of C-cups under her shirt, you're staring at them, and you realize they look weird. Why? You didn't put the nipples on yet. Is anybody going to know if she has nipples or not? No. But you'll know and it looks weird to you.
And you figure, "Nah, if I put nipples on it, I'd be crossing some sort of professional line, right? Yeah. That would be weird." So you lock up for the night, you go home, you're eating dinner, and you remember looking at the naked lady-bot in the glass case in the lab, and there they are, those two perfectly spherical breasts staring at you without nipples. You try to get your mind off it and watch some TV. That doesn't help. You call up your significant other, you make out, you start taking your clothes off, you see their nipples. Weirds you out. No no no, it's nothing, I just - just, it was a long day at work. Yeah, I don't know blah blah blah.
You go to bed with dry shorts and this nipple thing is just eating away at you. And you go back to work in the morning and there she is, smiling at you with her frozen smile and lifeless eyes and you think to yourself, "Well, Jesus, I mean, they spent all that time putting the eyes together, why can't I..." And you start doing some paper work, typing up function parameters for various servos and shit, and every once in a while, from your peripheral vision, there's that big dumb smiling face looking at you like some shit out of The Twilight Zone and those big breast-like things on her chest crying out for normalcy and completion.
And this goes on for three or four days, the better part of the work week; you have trouble eating, you can't sleep, and the last time you tried to bash the bishop, you couldn't do it because every porn star, every ex-girlfriend, every neighbor you tried to think about suddenly had no nipples. You tried counting change out on the coffee table yesterday and you couldn't even add it up, you're that distracted. Like I said, this goes on for three or four days until you say "Hell with it!" and put some goddamned nipples on the robot.
And that makes it creepier.
You know why? Remember a few paragraphs back when I used the term "uncanny valley"? Yeah. That's an actual thing. Take it away, Wikipedia!
What that graph is showing you is essentially the amount of acceptance and revulsion toward various human-like things. Notice how the industrial robot sits around zero, maybe even a little above. That is because we can accept it, it is recognizable as a thing and we can behave toward it with some amount of neutrality. Look at the other end, "Healthy Person". It's at the top because we can accept it. It's a human, after all.
Now, please note the relation of humanoid robot to moving prosthetic hand. A humanoid robot, here meaning one those cute little Honda-bots features things we recognize as being slightly human - limbs, a "face" of sorts - while still maintaining an overall robotic essence. Therefore, we can accept it for what it is and react to it with empathic response.
A prosthetic hand, though, falls into the uncanny valley as we can recognize that it is not genuine. It is made to deceive the casual observer. There is a sense of revulsion at it because it holds several traits recognizable as human though we know it is not. That's the uncanny valley: Revulsion at something recognizable as something it is known not to be.
So what happens when you get lifelike robots? You see the video and you say, "That's creepy." Congratulations, you're in the uncanny valley. It is your natural mental state to recoil at something like that.
Now, I'm just going to go out on a limb here and assume that everyone reading this is aware of the Real Doll. If not, Google it at home, trust me. Because I'll tell you right now, it's a high end doll specifically made for fucking. Not a blow up doll but a "drop an insane amount of money for glorified jacking off doll". And this is the most safe for work picture I could find.

That's right, you also dress them like normal people... when you're not fucking them.
And you know what? It's only because we can detect the essentially non-human features in a real doll that we begin to have an empathic response to it. And if you refer to the difference between moving and still objects on the graph, our revulsion is lessened also by the virtue that it cannot move. We have to recognize it as not human before we can appreciate the human qualities... and then, yeah, fuck it. Because we did pay for the thing to fuck it, right? Screw this science mumbo-jumbo fancy talk, it's time to have sex with a piece of rubber.
And unlike with our girlfriend, who doesn't want to go on the pill for some reason, we don't have to wear a condom!
And then the irony is that either way, our dick would be encased in rubber.
But anyway, that's why fuck-bots would weird you out. It is a natural human reaction.
And it's also just a matter of time, man. Remember that clip from earlier, the Perfect Woman? Do you remember what those assholes said the entire point of their robot was? It was a domestic partner - *cough* maid *cough* - who would do nothing but love you. (And then that's because it has no choice, no will, you programmed it that way and what you have on your hands is precisely the argument Burgess posited forth in A Clockwork Orange.) Now, how long until one of the customers sees his maid-bot bent over the sink, scrubbing a pan for him, and he's looking at that big ass and gets to thinking? And he probably has had these thoughts before, just rubbed one out looking at the maid-bot's big ass - and you know the maid-bot won't say anything about, won't even gripe when she has to mop up his mess - and now he's getting bored and he just wants to get up and yank the bitch's panties down and just drill the fuck out of her until her gears start grinding, probably trying to remember to pull out (like always) because, damn it, he paid good money for this thing, he doesn't want to break it by spooging in it.
And then that would void the warranty and he'd have to explain to the mechanic how spooge got in there, yada yada yada.
And so this rich motherfucker gets up, saunters over, lifts the maid-bot's skirt, yanks her panties down, whips his dick out, hard enough to cut diamonds, and he moves it down her crack and then...
Wait, what?
Where's the -
I mean -
Well, I guess it makes sense, right? She's a robot. She doesn't have to reproduce and she doesn't have to shit for that matter either. So, I mean, huh. Damn.
So he makes the thing jerk him off. Afterward, he writes a concerned letter to customer service. Something along the lines of...
To whom it may concern,

Tonight while my maid-bot was doing dishes, I decided to surprise her with a bit of intimacy. Imagine my dismay when I found, upon attempting penetration, that there was nothing to penetrate...
... and fucking so on. And you know, you know that he's not some isolated crank. No. There's going to be hundreds of these guys. And you know what that creates? Consumer demand. And the manufacturer is going to have to bow to consumer demand.
You mark my words, in ten years we will have fuck-bots. I'm not out of my mind, no. Look at things: we have robots that love you and dolls you can fuck and the Actroid, from the first video I showed you, was supposed to be ready for consumer purchase, not rental, purchase this past Spring. That means that plans were at one point put in motion to mass produce these fucking things. Do you think it will really take all that long before somebody with a shitload of disposable capital - *cough* Kenny *cough* - sees the same things I see and puts some money into an actual fuck-bot market? No, it won't take long at all because somebody already thought about that.
Do you really think the idea was to build a maid-bot? No. They were thinking of putting together a fuck-bot but they had to get funding somehow. Real Doll? Shit, there was a built in market for that with inflatable dolls and foam rubber costs what? 50¢ a cubic foot? That's a low start up cost business plan right there with high yields. But robots? That's damnably expensive. Really damnably expensive. I mean, how many tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars are required in both parts and man hours to turn out the first prototype? And then do the market and consumer research? And then to run the MKI line? And then how much hope is required that the loss your start up business takes in the first year (like all start up businesses take in the first year) isn't going to be devastating enough that you have to liquidate the company's assets and close it up for good?
No. You move into that market slowly. That's the smart way to about it. Fuck-bots? Too much too soon. Maid-bots? A little more socially acceptable, a wider consumer base. You can afford to have some of your target market fall into the uncanny valley with a maid-bot because, hey, they just need something not entirely unpleasant to look at to clean up around the house and "be a dear and fix us a drink, love", that sort of thing. A little bit of repulsion you can overcome by reminding yourself that it's actually more of an appliance than a person.
You don't want the uncanny valley anywhere near your fuck-bot business model. You want your customers to want to fuck the robot. A person with a narrow uncanny valley falls into a niche market and niche markets don't represent as much revenue as mass markets. And the mass market has a typically wider uncanny valley. Sell them the maid-bot like you would sell a washer-dryer combo or a vaccuum cleaner or a Swiffer or some shit, boom. Dolla dolla bill, y'all, you just circumnavigated the fuck out of that valley. And now that you got fat stacks, you can invest in what you wanted to the entire time: ROBOGINAS.
You know that's what they're doing. How convenient is it that the consumers are going to start clamoring for them eventually? The consumer wants it and the manufacturers want to give it to them. It's a mutually beneficial relationship. Everybody's needs are satisfied.
And you know what? I'm behind this shit one hundred goddamned percent. All of it. There's not a bit wrong with it from where I'm sitting. I could save for a house, for my retirement, for my future but FUCK. THAT. I'm saving for a fuck-bot. You can't tell me that if you had a disposable income that you wouldn't buy a fuck-bot. Well, you can tell me but I wouldn't believe you.
I'd get me a fuck-bot with a nice big ass, too, man. Just fucking ride that thing for a half hour at a time, four times a day, bucking back at me (very much) like a mechanical bull and you know what? Never not in the mood. Hell no. There won't be any of that shit. And when I get myself a high-on-the-hog work-from-home job, none of you are ever going to see me again. Why? Why go outside? I don't need that shit. I've got everything I need right here. Dating? Meeting people? Fuck that nonsense, you're out of your goddamned mind.
I talk to the fuck-bot, the fuck-bot talks to me.
I touch the fuck-bot, the fuck-bot responds.
The fuck-bot helps me clean around the house.
The fuck-bot has been programmed to love me.
The fuck-bot has a robogina and I can go in bareback.
And in ten years or so, these will be even more life-like with how technology progresses. And then I can convince myself she's real. Even though I have to throw her on the charger every night but you know... Look, all I'm saying is that when that day comes, the day I buy a fuck-bot, is the day you'll find me finally saying it:
FUCK YOU, SOCIETY! I'M DROPPING OUT! With your bullshit-ass "human interaction". Yeah, like that's something to be prized.
So, yeah, I'm setting up a savings account for that. And all you sad fucking panty-wastes are going to sit there, feeling repulsion toward the fuck-bot, not once considering the benefits of owning one, probably thinking about how it spits in the face of some "God's will" bullshit, going to bed with dry shorts every night because you couldn't pull any tail down at the Nascar bar which you went to because you were desperate and none of the birds over at the hipster bar put out unless you're into some bullshit twee-noise-pop crap, so you figure you can go to the Nascar bar where maybe you can meet a bird that likes old ZZ Top unironically but you get there and half them bints aint got but half their teeth and they're covered in bad spray tan and Bic pen tattoos, Kenny Chesney pumping out of the jukebox, and you meet one broad who seems half way decent to talk to but then you notice the cold sore when she looks at you directly and it's just beaming at you like the fucking bat signal and holy shit I gotta be at work in the morning and you get home and there you are, unlaid again. Miserable as shit. And you still won't just do as I did and throw in the towel and save up for a fuck-bot.
I'll cop to it, too. I'm ready to throw in the towel. Hell, I turn thirty in five months, my dating days and nights are over.
But think about it, now that you know what it is holding you back, now that you have a name for it and understand how it works, you can work on narrowing or even closing your uncanny valley.
Me? I'll be fucking a fuck-bot. I'll be happier than a pig in mud. And you know what I'll say when you bring me your tale of loveless woe?
And I want you to always remember that. Now get the fuck out of my blog. You have better things to do today.

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